


The Long Forever Knight

by chelseagirl



Category: Forever Knight, Philip Marlowe - Raymond Chandler
Genre: Crossover, Detectives, Film Noir, Gen, Murder Mystery, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 13:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16975119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelseagirl/pseuds/chelseagirl
Summary: Private detective Philip Marlowe investigates a murder, and discovers there are things of darkness beyond his imagining.  But who is Chicago police detective Nicholas Knight, and how does he fit in with all of it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written over twenty years ago, for my first online fandom, _Forever Knight_. Of all the stories I wrote in the fandom, this is by far my favorite. It originally appeared on FKFIC-L under my real name, and was subsequently reprinted in a fanzine called _In the Heat of the Knight_. I was later asked to revise and expand it for another zine, _Toujours LaCroix_. I've chosen to post the second version here.
> 
> If this story is archived anywhere else online, it is without my knowledge.
> 
> I adored writing in Marlowe's voice and I hope I did him justice.

Prologue

Lucien LaCroix sat at his desk, looking down at the brown paper-wrapped parcel which sat on the blotter facing him. The accompanying letter was addressed to him in fountain pen, but when he opened the envelope, he saw that the letter itself had been written on a computer and laser printed.

Aristotle. Who else would juxtapose the centuries in quite such unique ways as he?

He unfolded the letter, its thick vellum contrasting oddly to the regular printing which covered the page.

 _LaCroix,_ it read, _as this document contains references to you and several of your children, I thought it best to forward it to you. The story behind it is quite interesting._

_It was found in a safe deposit box in Los Angeles. The renter of the box had died several years earlier, but as there were no heirs, it was some time before the State of California, in its infinite wisdom, got around to settling the estate. The manuscript that was found was of sufficient interest that a literary agent was called in to appraise it._

_Need I state that the agent, like so many of her kind, was one of us?_

_She proclaimed the document worthless. After all, the deceased was not in fact named "Philip Marlowe," which was in fact the name of a fictional character created by another author, quite a well-known one, in fact. This was obviously a mere pastiche of that author's work, and not a very good one at that. Thus, the Enforcers were appeased, and the document was forwarded to me, as a curiosity._

_In fact, Philip Marlowe was not a fictional character at all, but the name that the late detective had used when he turned the notes of some of his cases over to a friend of his, a man called Raymond Chandler. I have read some of Chandler's works, and they are rather good, for a mortal. So you can imagine my surprise to learn that he was really a sort of front, and an editor for the real author, the detective himself._

_Oh, the prose in this story doesn't sparkle quite like it would have done, had Chandler given it his full treatment. But there was much in it that I recognized. And after all, the author's motivations are logical. Who would have consulted a detective had they known they would be reading about themselves in fictional form a year or two afterwards? Even these mortals have a greater sense of privacy than that._

_I think it's self-evident why this was never published. If you choose, you may share it with Nicholas and with Janette. It should go no further._

_*Yours, as ever,*_

_*Aristotle*_

LaCroix took a sharp penknife from the desk, and snapped the string. He unwrapped the manuscript and began to peruse it, and after a few moments, he began to smile with recognition.

*****

It was a warm, sultry afternoon in Los Angeles. At that time of year, the only surprise would be if it wasn't. I had just finished with a client -- telling the vulnerable wife of a cheating husband that I had the goods on him, unfortunately. I could tell from her expression as I handed over the photos that she'd been hoping otherwise, hoping I'd be able to tell her she was crazy, that her husband was just too embarrassed to tell her he was spending his evenings taking modern dance class or some such thing. But I couldn't. He had a mistress, all right, and that was it for that marriage. This lady had old fashioned ideas, you see. Not so typical of Los Angeles, and therefore kind of touching.

Foolish sentimental Marlowe, I couldn't even bring myself to accept the fee which she pressed on me with tear-stained eyes. "Save it. I guess you're going to need a lawyer." I waved her off. The money she'd given me at our initial meeting would cover my expenses, and as for that month's rent . . . well, I'd have to hope another client came along. One usually did, just before the landlord got threatening. But one thing was for sure -- I was never going to get rich in my line of business.

So it was something of a surprise when I found a visitor waiting patiently outside my office door. It was even more unexpected to realize that it was Bill Madden, supervisor of security for one of the major film studios. It was unusual to find anyone from any of the studios waiting patiently for anything, come to think of it, but especially outside of a rathole like my office.

"Hello, Marlowe. I assume you remember me, from that little matter about Ruby Fitzpatrick." Madden was just important enough that he could afford a good suit, and just unimportant enough that it didn't quite work on him. What was actually a pretty good specimen of the tailor's art hung on him like an old rag. He was medium sized and balding, altogether a forgettable-looking guy.

"Yes, I do. And what brings you from Hollywood into my part of town? Another missing ingenue? Or a star whose interest in his leading lady has come to the attention of his wife?"

"No, Marlowe. This time it's strictly big-league. This time it's murder."

"Murder? Isn't that a matter for the law, then?"

"Let me be the judge of that. Do you want the job, or not?" He looked around him, at the minimal decor of my office suite. "It looks like you could use the work."

I put my feet up on my desk in a gesture that could have conveyed either good-fellowship or contempt. What it really meant was that I wanted to gauge Madden's reaction to a less than servile attitude. The studio types could be funny about that, and my involvement in the case was going to depend on whether I could work with Madden. I offered him a drink from my desk bottle, which he accepted gratefully, and then launched into his story.

"You've heard of Jack Sanderson, right? He's a contract player with the studio. Big handsome midwestern type but not quite star quality, so he plays a lot of second leads."

"The name sounds familiar. I don't get to the movies so much these days."

"What I'm saying is that Jack Sanderson was found dead, by his swimming pool, this morning."

"I'm all ears."

"Well, the thing, Marlowe, is that he was found without a drop of blood in his body. Dry as the proverbial bone. And the only wound was on his neck, a coupla puncture marks. No one's ever seen anything like it, outside of that *Dracula* flick."

"And you're telling me this because --"

"The L.A. police have agreed to let us investigate this privately, first. They're afraid it may cause something of a panic, if it gets out. I mean, clearly _Dracula_ is a fairy story, but what if there's some kinda maniac, seen the movie hundreds of times or something? Besides, Sanderson was a strong guy. Whoever did this was no shrinking violet."

The L.A. police "agreed to let" the studio investigate the murder privately? Sanderson wasn't that big a star, and crazy killings happen every day in a place like Los Angeles. The studio was using that green kind of persuasion on the cops, the same they were about to offer me. So I wasn't surprised at all when Madden offered to double my usual fee. But I was quick enough to tell him that my usual fee was twice what it really was in the first place. He didn't even flinch.

"So will I be working with anyone from the police, or am I flying solo?"

"We'd prefer that you made some preliminary investigations on your own. You will report directly to me. We, not you, will make the decision when to call in the police. This has already been cleared with the Chief of Police himself."

"So do I get to see the body? The crime scene?"

"We'd rather not take you down to the morgue to see the body, since we're trying to keep your role in this strictly confidential. Here's a detailed file, with photos. But unless you have another appointment, I can take you to the scene right now. And I strongly suggest that you not have another appointment. We'd like to see this thing put to rest as quickly as possible. So that you don't feel motivated to, umm, stretch out the investigation, we'll provide an additional bonus for quick completion."

The photos were of a tall, blondish guy, well-built. But like the Greek statues he resembled, he was nearly marble-white. He wasn't much more lively than they were, either. There were a couple of closeups of his neck that were particularly disturbing, since they showed two smallish, bloody puncture wounds. Between the wounds and the bloodless pallor, I could see why *Dracula* came to mind.

We rode out to Sanderson's house in Madden's car. There was one more question that I had to ask. "You mentioned the killer made like Count Dracula. I was wondering, there are certain . . . rumors about Bela Lugosi. That he takes his part a little too seriously. That he sleeps in a coffin even when he isn't working and stuff like that. That maybe he acts out his role in other ways."

Madden smiled. "That's one of the reasons we want to keep this investigation quiet. See, we know for sure it wasn't Lugosi. But we know about those rumors, too. He does sometimes identify a little too strongly with his most famous role. In fact, it's true he sometimes sleeps in a coffin. But he's also a good family man, with a wife and kids and some real personal problems."

"Such as?"

"Such as, he's got a monkey on his back."

"Dope?"

"Intermittently. He kicks, he's clean for a while, then he can't get any work but the umpteenth stage show of _Dracula_ and he begins to need a little pick me up. Lugosi's been in a rest home, kicking. He's due out at the end of the week. Any publicity about a "Dracula" killer could send him right back in and frankly, well, his wife needs him, his kids need him, and we need him to start shooting another horror flick a few days after his release."

"And you're afraid if it gets into the press, the public will suspect him, or he'll begin to wonder if he's capable of such a thing when he's doped up or something like that --"

"Yeah, something like that. Sanderson played a minor part in his last film."

"And the studio has an investment here."

Madden shot me a look of disgust such as I have never seen from a studio type before. "Well, yeah, there's that. But also . . . look, I've met the family. Little Bela Junior's only six years old, but when you ask him if he wants to be an actor like his daddy when he grows up, he says, "No! I don't wanna be an actor. I wanna be a lawyer!" I just want his old man to be able to give him that chance, to get outta this crazy life and be something real." He grimaced. "And the studio cares a lot about its investment."

Maybe Madden deserved more credit than I'd been giving him. Just because he had a few feelings didn't mean that everything was suddenly sunny and bright, but it somehow made me feel a little better about the case.

*****

Sanderson's house was just the kind of place you'd expect a second-rate studio not-quite-star to live in. It wasn't much more than a bungalow, but it had a hacienda-style facade, and a smallish swimming pool around the back. The place where Sanderson had been found was a small concrete patio attached to the pool. There was nothing at all extraordinary about it. It was the home of a second-rate dreamer who was so self-deluded that he died not even knowing that he'd never achieved his dream.

"So what about Sanderson's personal life?"

"Exactly what you'd expect. No wife, no steady girlfriend, fancied himself a ladies' man."

"Think this could be the revenge of a spurned paramour?"

"We've thought about it. But Sanderson's size is against it. If he'd have been shot, then sure, but very few women, and not so very many men, could have overpowered a guy like Jack Sanderson." He reached in his pocked and took out an envelope. "Here's his datebook. We've already dusted it for prints, and there weren't any but Sanderson's."

I filed it away to look at when I got home. Right now I just wanted to get away from everything that reminded me of Sanderson, from the pretentious small house to the pretentious small pool. I was beginning to dislike him, and I thought he deserved better than that. It was the only murder he was ever likely to get, and maybe it was his big starring role at last. Too bad there wouldn't be any sequels.

*****

When I returned to my office, I pulled out the datebook. For a ladies' man, Sanderson hadn't been very busy lately. Earlier in the year there were many names: Judy, Marilyn, Caroline, Betty. But in the last month, only one: Janette. Fortunately, her address was in the back of the book. She lived outside of the city, in an area that was just beginning to see the encroachment of what is optimistically known as Greater Los Angeles.

It was late when I got started, and after dark when I arrived. Janette DuCharme lived in a much more attractive house than Sanderson, larger and less foolishly ornamented. It was older than its neighbors, and very well-kept, although there wasn't much in the way of a garden. There wasn't anything at all odd about the house until you saw the inside.

The woman who opened the door was strikingly beautiful, which is not unusual in L.A. But in L.A. nearly every woman is a blonde, at least professionally, and the brunettes are that fiery dark-eyed Dolores Del Rio type. This woman had dark hair and blue eyes, and she wore a black dress that set off the total pallor of her skin. In a town where women strive to be seen as exotic, she did it effortlessly. "May I help you?" she asked, with an accent I could not at first place.

"My name is Philip Marlowe. I'm investigating the death of Jack Sanderson. May I ask you a few questions?"

"I am Janette DuCharme. But I am still not sure how I can assist you." The accent was French, to match the name, not necessarily a given in Hollywood.

"It seems that you knew Mr. Sanderson."

"Yes, I knew him. Why don't you come in?"

Janette's house was furnished like a place from another climate, another century. Heavy velvet drapes hung at the windows, and the furniture was dark and ornate, with brocade upholstery and carved wood. There were rich oriental carpets on the floors, and the colors were red and blue, with dark, dark wood. I had never seen a place that looked less like Southern California, not even outside of Southern California.

"You don't seem surprised to hear that Mr. Sanderson is dead."

She gave an eminently Gallic shrug. "He was courting death. Should I be surprised that he found it? May I offer you a drink, Mr. Marlowe? I'm afraid that the only thing I drink is red wine. Will that be all right?"

"That'll be just fine," I lied, thinking about how nicely a whiskey would set just about now. Since there was an extra glass sitting by the wine bottle, I went to pour some for myself. "No!" I heard her cry suddenly. "That is -- this wine has been sitting for too long. Let me open a fresh bottle."

This Janette was one cool customer. Literally cool. When she handed me my drink, her hands felt like ice, and this was despite the Los Angeles summer heat, the heat that never really broke, not even at night. But the wine was excellent. It made me wonder why I was so attached to that slop in my office bottle anyway.

"Why do you say that Sanderson was courting death?"

"The company he kept. It was not wise . . . for someone like him."

"The company he kept?"

"Well, myself and a number of my friends. We were not the right people for him to know." She raised an eyebrow. "I do not mean that my friends or I killed him. We did not. But he was interested in things that should not have concerned him."

"In what sense, Miss DuCharme?"

The phone rang in the other room. "Excuse me, Mr. Marlowe."

I could hear her speaking rapidly into the telephone in French. Unfortunately, my French -- what there ever was of it -- is more than a little rusty, and I couldn't really make anything out. She returned to the room a moment later.

"In what sense, Miss DuCharme, was he interested in things that should not have concerned him?"

But that phone call was unlucky for me, because she seemed to have lost a lot of her interest in making dire comments about Sanderson. "Oh, nothing, really. Just -- going to bars on the wrong side of town, driving too fast, that sort of thing. Nothing a pampered little studio boy should be doing. And he had this idea that he was in love with me, when that was quite impossible." 

"Why?"

She shrugged again. "Because I could never love him."

I wasn't going to get anything more out of her tonight, so I decided to bring the interview to a close. There was something odd about this Janette DuCharme, but whatever it was, it was clear I wasn't going to catch her unawares again tonight. So I excused myself, and was soon headed back to my apartment in the Hobart Arms, where I fell promptly asleep, to dream of pale pretty ladies endlessly disappearing behind red velvet curtains.

*****

When I awoke it was bright sunlight outside. I looked at the clock on my bedstand, but unfortunately, I'd forgotten to wind it the night before. I fumbled my way to the dresser, where I found my watch. It was after noon. Not like me to sleep that late if I hadn't been rendered unconscious by force, which was one of those hazards of my profession. I often awoke in the middle of bright sunlight, but usually with a sore place somewhere on my head to indicate just where I'd been hit. I was confused for a moment because I didn't hurt anywhere.

The afternoon was frustrating and fruitless. I talked to a couple of Sanderson's studio acquaintances, but nobody had much to say about him except that he was mildly annoying, essentially well-intentioned, and that nobody had any strong feelings about him. He just wasn't the kind of guy you'd care enough about one way or another enough to want to kill. Even his lady friends regarded him as harmless, a good-looking guy to have on your arm if there was nobody special in your life at the moment. I began to think his playing the field so much might not have been his choice. Which brought me back to Janette, the one woman he had pursued continually and exclusively for the month prior to his death.

There was certainly something odd about her. So odd that it was difficult to even begin to pinpoint what it was. But while I was sitting over a drink and pondering it, I noticed that the sun was hanging low over the horizon, already. And I still wanted to take another look at the murder site, see if anything had evaded the eagle eyes of studio security.

Nothing had, of course. Nothing ever does. When dark fell entirely, I turned away, thinking that a visit to Janette might be my only hope for a new lead. As I headed back to my car, I saw that another car was pulling up next to mine. A man got out, a blond man in a dark suit, who looked to be a few years younger than me.

"What are you doing here? You with the press?" I asked.

"No," he frowned. "Are they looking into this?"

"Depends what 'this' you're talking about."

"The Jack Sanderson murder. You _are_ investigating the Sanderson murder, aren't you?"

"I might be, if there was one," I said. Let him give away his game first.

"Well, I am." He smiled, disarmingly. I wasn't disarmed.

"Just who _are_ you?" I asked, not bothering to hide my impatience.

"Nick Knight. I'm with the Chicago police force." This Nick Knight was blond, but not suntanned California blond. In fact, he was unusually pale. Okay, the winters are colder in Chicago, and longer, but he looked like he hadn't seen the light of day in awhile. I guess you'd call him a handsome guy otherwise. He must have noticed my inquisitive stare. He was probably used to it. "I have a medical condition -- I need to say out of the sun as much as possible. Well, completely, really. So I work nights, and even on vacation . . . well, Los Angeles is beautiful at night."

"If you're on vacation, Mr. Knight, what are you doing snooping around the scene of a murder? The L.A. cops have let the studio take charge of this, and quite frankly, _I'm_ the only investigator who's been authorized."

"All right, I'll be honest with you. Sanderson's from Illinois. His parents are friends of mine. They sent me out here because they hadn't heard from him in a month. He was the kind of guy that'd write his mother twice a week and phone on Sundays, and when they stopped hearing, well . . . "

I could picture Sanderson's parents, small town Midwesterners. The mom probably wore a checked apron and the dad probably had a small business. I didn't see them hanging around with this guy. Where would he know them from? Church? He seemed like a bit of a boy scout, but even so, that was hard to swallow. "But what makes you think he'd dead?"

"I checked the records at the City Morgue. They may be keeping it from the public, but not from the Chicago police, Mr. -- ?"

"Name's Marlowe, I'm a P.I. It's an honest living, at least the way I do it. Which means I'm not getting rich at it."

"I like you already, Mr. Marlowe. Listen," he said, "since you're authorized to investigate, and since I've come all this way, why don't we join forces? You give me the official okay, and I give you --"

"What?" I asked. I didn't need this Chicago cop hampering my investigation, especially not when I'd so fortunately escaped the L.A.P.D.

"Lots." He smiled amiably. I was beginning to like this guy, in spite of myself, and that was worrying me. "For example," he said, beginning to head back towards the pool, "I see very well in the dark. What's this?"

What he was holding was a small black button. It looked at if it had come off of a black shirt, men's. Other than priests, I didn't see too many people wearing black shirts, not in Los Angeles in the summertime. And I was pretty sure we could rule out a priest as our killer. This was quite a find.

"I'm impressed." I was. "But I'm calling it quits for the evening. Come by my office tomorrow afternoon, late, and we can talk."

"I'm . . . tied up tomorrow afternoon. Plus the sunlight'll be pretty strong then. Could we meet in the evening?" He looked like the kind of guy you could trust, and I have pretty solid instincts about that sort of thing, so I gave him my home address. Besides, I was in the book, so it's not like I could hide from anyone who really wanted to find me.

But before I called it a night, I wanted to pay another visit to Miss Janette. I needed answers, and I had a hunch that Janette DuCharme was the person to provide them. I stopped to get something to eat, and it was close to midnight when I pulled up in front of her place, but she didn't seem like the early bird type. I saw that there was another car in her driveway.

I took the precaution of looking in the window before I rang her doorbell. One of the heavy velvet curtains over the front windows had obviously been pulled aside and not yet readjusted.

"Janette," a man said. It was Nick Knight. "What are you doing in Los Angeles?"

"I might ask you the same question," she fired back. "I was looking for a new place to live -- since you've made it clear that I needn't think about living near you."

"Is LaCroix here, too?"

"I don't think so. I came here on my own. I haven't seen him." At least that's what I think she meant to say. What she actually said was, "I haven't sensed him."

I saw her draw closer to Knight, and he backed away a step or two. Clearly this femme was a bit too fatale for our boy scout. Perhaps now would be a good time to ring the doorbell, and save him from a potentially embarrassing situation. The lady did not seem the type that was used to being turned down.

"Nicolas, I have missed you," she said in that charming accent. My heart melted, if his didn't.

"And . . . I have missed you, too." He looked her in the eyes, and he wasn't backing away anymore, so I lowered my hand from the bell. It must have been the lighting, but I thought I saw her eyes glowing with a golden flame for just a minute before their faces met and they kissed each other hungrily. When he began to nuzzle her neck, I collected myself and turned away. Philip Marlowe may snoop for a living, but he's no voyeur. I'd have to try Janette again tomorrow. I checked my watch. Nearly 12:30 and time for this boy to get some sleep.

I wondered who Knight was really working for. Janette had seemed genuinely surprised to see him, so maybe it _was_ the Sandersons. Knight and Janette clearly had some kind of history together -- they didn't kiss like it was the first time, but like it was the first time in a long time. Thinking about his pale, almost luminous skin, and remembering her equally striking pallor, I figured maybe they'd met at a convention for people with that sun-sensitivity disease or something.

On the other hand, I decided it would be best if I called the Chicago police department in the morning, just to make sure this guy was for real. After all, didn't Count Dracula hide from the rays of the sun, too? I didn't remember the movie all that well, but maybe Knight and Janette did. Maybe they were in on it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my delight, Bela Lugosi Jr. did grow up to become a lawyer in Los Angeles. I couldn't resist slipping that in.


	2. Chapter 2

I wasn't given the option of sleeping in the next day. The telephone took care of that. In fact, the clock read about 7 when the phone rang. It was Bill Madden, which is what I expected. There'd been another murder, just like Sanderson's. Another minor studio player, just like Sanderson. Only Alexis Parker was a lot more popular than Sanderson. She was the kind of girl who nearly every man in the studio system had taken his chance with, and she was the kind of girl who could get away with giving in, sometimes. Every man at the studio, whether he'd been lucky with her, or not, liked her, thought she was a good sport. Women liked her too, which was unusual with a girl like that, but in this case, true. But she'd been found just inside her living room, body drained of blood and two little wounds in the neck.

The frustrating part was that she'd been killed at about 12:30 am, and that was just about the time I was turning away from Knight and Janette in a clinch. So there went my two suspicious characters.

A call to the Chicago Police Department brought me confirmation that Detective Nicholas Knight was indeed one of the Windy City's finest, and one who had attracted a lot of positive notice from his superiors. He worked nights, and he preferred to work alone, but he got results and he played it by the book. Plus, it turned out Sanderson's dad was a desk officer on the night shift there. So much for the small town apple pie picture I'd built in my head. Jack Sanderson was a city kid after all, and his dad really did work with Knight.

I met Madden at Alexis Parker's home. She lived in a flat, and a nice one. In fact, Alexis Parker lived in a building with a doorman.

"She always said she felt safe here, what with being a single girl and all," a nearly hysterical neighbor was saying. Alexis having been so popular, this was going to be a much more difficult death to hush up. The neighbor, an older woman with red-blonde hair, wearing a tired-looking housedress, looked genuinely overcome, between losing her friend and seeing the failure of her building's much-vaunted security system. "She was a wild girl, but a good girl at heart." Alexis was the kind of girl who'd dance with the studio johnnies until dawn, catch a few hours of sleep, and be ready with a plate of cookies to share with a disappointed housewife the next morning, if she wasn't shooting that day.

There were a couple of policemen at the door, who immediately stepped aside to let Madden and I enter. One of them followed us into the apartment. "The Chief is concerned. Another day or two without results, and it looks like the department will have to get involved after all."

Madden looked at me. "Marlowe's really on top of things. In fact, he's just waiting for a few last pieces of the puzzle to come together. Isn't that right, Marlowe?"

"What? Yeah, right." In fact, my attention had been transfixed by one of the many framed pictures displayed on Miss Parker's baby grand piano. Right next to the picture of Alexis Parker with Clark Gable, there was a picture of Alexis Parker that suddenly riveted my attention. There she was, photographed with Janette DuCharme. They were both in evening dresses, and both smiling.

The cop was trying to get my attention. Alexis Parker herself was present, covered with a sheet, and he was wondering whether I would like to take a look at the body. Well, I wouldn't, but it would hardly be professional to say so, so I nodded my approval. She was lying there, auburn curls loose around her shoulders, no makeup, looking very peaceful and very very dead. The pallor was more striking than in the picture of Sanderson, because the photo was black and white, and flat, and here she was, in living color, so to speak. There was no expression of terror on her face. Whoever had done this must have known her, or surprised her very quickly.

"Not a drop of blood in her body," the policeman was whispering. "That's what the doc says. We've got to take her downtown now, but the Chief said we should wait for you to see her."

I thanked him, and as soon as I could get rid of Madden, I drove out to Janette's house. It was dark and still. Nobody answered, despite my repeated rings. Knight's car was gone. I guessed I'd have to go back later, and headed back to the studio, to interview all sorts of people about how absolutely beloved the late Miss Parker was. At least this time their grief seemed sincere.

I spent the day listening to Alexis Parker's praises. If Jack Sanderson had been a nobody, Alexis Parker had been a somebody. Aside from a slightly different way of living her life than the folks back home might have approved of, there was not a thing against the girl. And there was not a thing she had in common with Sanderson except the studio . . . and an unfortunate propensity to socialize with Janette DuCharme.

*******

Shortly after dark there was a buzz from my lobby. It was Knight, coming to keep his appointment. He certainly had a lot to explain, Chicago police or not. When I opened the door, Knight and Janette were standing side-by-side.

"How very convenient," I said. "The two people in Los Angeles I most wanted to speak with. They entered, looked at each other, then back at me. "Or perhaps you hadn't heard about Alexis Parker."

"What about Alexis?" asked Janette, with just the right shade of concern in her voice. She was wearing a red number tonight, with black trimming. She was beautiful, all right, but there was something almost . . . inhuman . . . about her paleness, her stillness. "Is she all right?"

"Well, nothing's going to be hurting her ever again."

"You don't mean . . ."

"She was murdered, just the way Jack Sanderson was murdered. Two wounds on her neck and all the blood drained out of her body. You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you? She wouldn't have been running with the wrong crowd, say?"

Now Janette looked genuinely surprised. "No, she and Jack had nothing to do with each other, as far as I know. She came to me for elocution lessons. She was to play Marie Antoinette, and she wanted to develop a French accent for the part."

"Pardon me for being a bit cynical, but you must be giving some high-class elocution lessons to afford a house like that."

She gave a short laugh. "My money is inherited. I gave her the lessons because it amused me. One does need something to do with one's time, after all."

Now Knight, who hadn't seemed to register anything when I'd said Alexis' name, burst in. "Surely you don't suspect Janette." Living up to his name, riding to his lady's rescue.

"No," I said, lighting a cigarette. "I don't. But only by the merest of chances." I gestured to my companions. Janette graciously accepted, but Knight declined, brusquely waving the smoke away when it came near his face. "Only because I drove out to your house around midnight last night, Miss DuCharme, to ask you some further questions, and you don't close your curtains so well. Alexis Parker was killed just after midnight, and I'd have to confirm that you were each other's alibis."

They shot another glance at each other. They didn't act like a couple who'd just spent a passionate night in each other's arms, but I guess that was their business.

"Any suspects, then?" asked Knight.

"Even fewer people had any reason to wish Alexis Parker harm than Jack Sanderson. So it may be down to your black button, after all."

Janette looked at him sharply. "Black button?"

"Button off a man's shirt. Hardly a summer color, here in Los Angeles. But I'm surprised Knight hasn't told you all about it already, you two being so close and all."

I wondered what they were not saying to each other, and whether maybe I'd have a chance to find out if I left them alone for a moment. I asked them whether they'd like a drink and they both refused, so I went into the kitchenette to fix one for myself.

"How much do you think we need to tell him?" Knight was asking Janette softly, so softly that if the wall partitioning the kichen from the living room hadn't been so thin it was a disgrace to the builder, I never would have caught it.

"We must avoid it if at all possible. The community would not --" but she broke off as I reentered the room. "Nicolas and I were just saying what a lovely community you live in. So convenient to downtown, yet so quiet."

I didn't deign to reply to that one. "Look, there've been two murders, my only reasonable suspect is you, Miss DuCharme, and you have an alibi for the second. The black button could belong to the gardener. I don't have a whole lot to go on, here. Whatever you two know, either spill it, or I may have to call in the police. I'm not sure why, but I don't think either of you would like that very much. Just call it a hunch."

Knight raised a hand to his tie, which he straightened nervously, but his words were studied, cool. "I've been in contact with the police, Marlowe. You know they let me see Sanderson in the morgue. What could I possibly have to hide? But my attention is all yours. What else do we have to go on?"

"Well, whoever it was, either was strong enough to overpower Sanderson, or else was someone he trusted. And whoever did it, may be keeping track of who Miss DuCharme is spending her time with. The first time we met," I turned to her, "you mentioned friends. They may be suspects, or they may be next on the killer's list. But it's not an unreasonable suspicion to think that, whoever the killer is, he or she may be fixated on you."

She looked at Knight again, searching for something in his face, and when she didn't find it there, began to speak, reluctantly. "Yes, there is someone. A former lover of mine. It is possible that it was him."

"Janette, was it--?" Knight began.

"His name is Francisco DiLorenzo. He lives here in Los Angeles. He is very jealous and very violent. He did not like losing me."

"And this DiLorenzo is one of that group of friends you have spoken about?" I asked.

"Yes, Mr. Marlowe."

"Then I think it's time for me to meet your friends."

"That won't be possible," she said firmly. "They are not fond of the authorities, nor are they likely to cooperate with you. I will determine if it is Francisco, and if it is, he will be dealt with. He will disturb the peace of Los Angeles no longer. Please, Mr. Marlowe. Let me take care of this."

"I don't think you quite understand, Miss DuCharme. There have been two murders committed. Either you cooperate with me now, and this is taken care of quietly, or the police come in, and trample all over your sensitive little matters." It was then that I made my mistake, or she made hers. I put my hand gently on her arm in an attempt to soothe matters. It was quickly removed, but with such strength and such speed as to be positively incredible in a woman of her size. Strength that could have overpowered even a man like Jack Sanderson. "Who _are_ you?" I asked.

"I don't think you need to know that," she said softly. "Just let me take care of the matter. Nicolas will contact you when it is over."

I looked at Knight, but his face was studiedly blank. "Janette is right. This is not a matter for the police. Please, Marlowe, let us take care of it."

"But a minute ago you were reminding me that you _are_ the police," I pointed out, "in case you'd forgotten. A pretty face can do that to a man."

Knight smiled. "No, I hadn't forgotten. Marlowe, I'll phone you in the morning."

******

I gave them a few minutes. They weren't hard to tail. Knight just didn't know Los Angeles like I do. I followed them to a shuttered house, in a decaying part of town. Mixed in between the cheap bungalows were a couple of grander houses, mostly divided into apartments, and rotting because of the weather and the lack of attention they got. This one looked deserted.

I made my way around to the side of the house, where I heard voices through a closed shutter. "He's _here_? LaCroix is _here_?" Knight sounded angry.

"But Nicolas, you know he always turns up when we are in trouble. I did not contact him, I swear it. He just _knows_." Janette's tone was less distressed than resigned.

I couldn't hear footsteps, but suddenly there was a third voice in the room. "Will you never learn, Nicholas? I am always there for my children when they need me." It was a man, an Englishman by the sounds of it. "And you _do_ need me, Nicholas, make no mistake about it."

"Why is this suddenly my problem? It's Janette's little friend who's been breaking the Code. He's the one who's put the community at risk with his foolish behavior in not concealing his kills."

"Yes, and you had to come blundering in, helping one of your mortal friends locate a missing son. Janette could have handled this private investigator by herself, but not once you were involved, _Detective Knight_. Honestly, Nicholas, after all these centuries, have you learned nothing?" 

At was just at this moment that my body chose to betray me. I was seized with a sudden uncontrollable urge to sneeze. It was soft, they shouldn't have heard it, but whoever these people were, the ordinary rules didn't seem to apply to them.

"What was that?" asked the Englishman.

Knight sounded reluctant as he answered. "I think I know. Wait just a moment." A minute later I found him at my side. "Marlowe, this was a really _bad_ idea. I'm trying to protect you, and you're not making it easy."

"Protect me from what?" But I knew he wouldn't answer.

I followed Knight into the house, and into a back room. Janette was there, and with her was one of the strangest-looking men I have ever seen. He was so pale that Knight and Janette looked almost tanned in comparison. His hair was cut extremely short, like a marine's, and his pale blue eyes were deeply shadowed. If you'd have told me that he was some kind of supernatural killer, I'd have believed you.

Knight introduced me, in what seemed to be a weak attempt to maintain decorum. "Lucien LaCroix, may I present Philip Marlowe? He's the detective who's been working with me on the Sanderson murder."

"Charmed, I'm sure," drawled LaCroix. French name, British accent, and he gave off the air of having lived in a lot of different places. "Nicholas, are you quite insane?" He rolled those eyes. "Nothing . . . personal, Mr. Marlowe." He turned back to Knight. "But a mortal cannot know our secrets." And then he turned to me once again, and something happened that I still have trouble believing, something that returns to me on sleepless nights. His eyes changed color, from blue to an amber-gold and his teeth . . . I have trouble believing it and I was there. His teeth had transformed into fangs, like a wildcat's or a tiger's. "Our secrets must remain safe." He lunged towards me, grasping at my shirt collar.

But suddenly Knight was between us, and as I glimpsed his face, he had transformed himself in the same way. "No, LaCroix!" he snarled. "Marlowe is my responsibility. I will take care of him."

"The only way to take care of him is to kill him -- or to bring him across. Which are you going to choose?"

"Neither," said Knight. "Marlowe can be of use to us. And he is honorable."

LaCroix's face had returned to normal. "You and your mortal virtues. What _is_ honor, Nicholas? Very well, Mr. Marlowe, you may stay -- for the moment."

I turned to Janette, knowing what that lovely mouth must also contain. "And you? Do you have any sudden surprises for me?"

She nodded. "I am what they are."

"Vampires. Like in the movies. Unlike the infamous Mr. Lugosi, whom it might interest you to know I am trying to protect."

LaCroix curled his lip. "Bela Lugosi movies? Come now, you can hardly believe we are accurately represented by those . . . primitive jokes."

"And this is supposed to get me to _remove_ you all from my suspect list?" If those movies told the truth, I was pretty much defenseless right now. Silver bullets, wasn't it? And wooden stakes and garlic. None of those in my pockets. No crosses, either. Suddenly I was sorry about all the things I hadn't listened to in Sunday School. "We thought the killer might possibly be someone who thought he was a vampire. You three don't just _think_ you're vampires, do you? Unless there was some sleight-of-hand with the eyes and the teeth?"

Knight smiled. No fangs now. "No, no magic tricks."

"Well, then, let's get to work. But if you'll pardon me, I'm going to have a drink, first." There was a nearly-full hip flask in my pocket. I drained about half of it in one swig, to no apparent effect except that my heart found its way back into my chest.

"I'd like a drink, too," said Janette, meaningfully. I wasn't sure I liked her anymore. But LaCroix handed her a bottle of what looked like red wine and probably wasn't. I tried not to think about it as they passed the bottle between them, or about the bottle of wine she'd prevented me from pouring from in her apartment that night. Tried not to, but failed. Knight declined, but he probably just wasn't hungry. I didn't want to think about that, either.

Well, Marlowe, if anyone had ever told you you'd be drinking with a trio of vampires, would you have believed them? I took another quick sip from my flask and screwed the cap back on.

"So this Francisco you were mentioning before?"

"Is one of us," confirmed Janette. "As I have said, he was my lover for a time. But I was ready to move on and he was not. Why he chose to wreak his vengeance on my mortal associates, I do not know. He may have thought I was prepared to bring one of them across to join me, to replace him in my affections."

"Bring them across -- make them into vampires?"

She nodded. I thought of LaCroix's words earlier and shuddered again.

"Alexis Parker, as well as Jack Sanderson?"

Janette looked me straight in the eye. "If one of them could have tempted me, it would have been Alexis Parker. She was far more . . . interesting. And far more attractive."

I liked her again. She was honest, all right. "But, in fact, neither of them did."

"No. They did not. It is the rare mortal who has the potential."

"And is there anyone else who might have given him reason to be jealous? Anyone else, uh, human, you were spending a lot of time with?"

She thought for a moment. "Yes. Yes, there was one other mortal with whom I spent a fair amount of time. His name is Paul Kaminsky and he lives out by the water, at Venice Beach. He is painting my portrait."

I nodded to Knight. "Let's go."

"Excuse me," said LaCroix, raising his hand and pointing to me. "You are proposing to accompany a vampire, to protect a mortal from another vampire? Do you have the vaguest idea what that involves?"

"Look," I said, "all I know is that Paul Kaminsky is in danger. You two do what you want. But the three of you are going to be pretty conspicuous together. _You_ were talking about the need for secrecy. Knight's the least noticeable. I mean he -- passes for human the best."

"I take that as a compliment," Knight smiled.

"You would," LaCroix raised an eyebrow. "We'll meet you there." He turned to me. "We won't let Kaminsky see all three of us together."

*****

Knight and I got into my car. I knew Los Angeles a lot better than he did. "Are they following us in your car?"

He hesitated. "They'll meet us there."

"Okay," I said. "I guess Janette knows her way." But there was something else on my mind. "LaCroix was willing to kill me to keep your secret. Why does he want to help save Kaminsky?"

Knight smiled, resignedly. "I don't think Kaminsky's well-being is very high on his list. Taking care of DiLorenzo, before he annoys Janette any further, or puts her in any danger, is what LaCroix is concerned about. If he has any concern at all about Kaminsky, it's because he knows how much it would annoy Janette if her portrait weren't finished."

We rode in silence much of the way to Venice Beach, an artists' colony on the water. I had a lot to absorb, and Knight seemed concerned about something.

Finally, he spoke. "If DiLorenzo does show up, you could be in a great deal of danger."

"Should I stop off and pick up a bottle of holy water?" I asked, sarcastically.

I was surprised when he said, quite seriously, "Can you get one?"

I'm not Catholic, and I hadn't been inside a church of any sort in years, but it happened that there was a priest I knew who lived out in our general direction. He was a good sort, who did a lot for the kind of lost souls I came across all too often in my work, and we'd helped each other out before. We took a brief detour -- we didn't even know whether tonight was the night DiLorenzo would pick to strike -- and I stopped by the Rectory. Knight waited in the car -- he explained that religious symbols did, in fact, have some kind of power over him. A few moments later, I'd emerged with a sizable crucifix under my arm (usually resident on Father Matthew's living room wall) and a bottle of holy water in my jacket pocket.

Knight flinched, and hard, when he saw the crucifix, which I concealed under a blanket in the back seat of my car. He smiled ruefully. "We took these things more seriously in my day."

"In your day?" I asked him.

"What would you say if I told you I was a Crusader in medieval Europe, before I became . . . what I am?"

He looked about thirty-five, a couple of years younger than me. "Now, my history's a little rusty," I said, "but that would make you what -- seven, eight hundred years old?"

"About that." He was serious.

"This is getting too weird for me," I admitted. "And Janette, LaCroix?"

"Are older than I am. LaCroix, particularly, he was a Roman general." He smiled ruefully. "The only reason I'm telling you all this is because it will be arranged so that you forget it, at the end."

"To protect your community, as you called it?"

"That, and, because otherwise, we would have to kill you. But I won't let that happen."

"Nick Knight, you are the strangest policeman I have ever met."

"Just trying to atone for some of the damage I've caused over the centuries." He looked serious when he said that.

I thought about the crucifix in the back seat, and suddenly, I was glad it was there. But soon we were in Venice.

Kaminsky's house was a small beach shack, near the water. There were a number of really large windows opening into what was obviously his studio, facing the water. The rest of the house was behind the studio, and it was pretty clearly bachelor's quarters. It wasn't large enough for more than one person. We walked around to the back of the house. The window was open, to catch the breezes, and we could hear a sound of steady breathing. Kaminsky was home, and he was peacefully asleep. For now.

"Perhaps DiLorenzo's not coming, tonight," whispered Knight. I had a strange sensation of motion, and suddenly Janette and LaCroix were beside us. Knight motioned them further away from the window, where the three of them stood in whispered conference. It occurred to me that I hadn't heard them drive up. Perhaps they'd gotten here earlier and parked further away. LaCroix looked up and our eyes met. They were the coldest eyes I'd ever seen. I was hiding the crucifix under my jacket now, and I gave it a little squeeze, much like in another tight space I'd feel for my gun.

We waited for hours, listening to the surf washing against the shore. The ocean breezes chilled me, the first time I'd been chilly in months. My companions didn't seem to feel the cold, not even Janette in her thin dress, and that sent a different sort of a shiver down my spine. After a long silence, LaCroix spoke in a low tone. "It seems that your artist friend is not to have any visitors tonight, Janette. And I begin to wonder what we are doing here."

“He could still show up," protested Knight. "We have several hours yet until dawn."

"Perhaps," said LaCroix. "But I wonder if it is necessary for all of us to keep watch. Since you are so keen on this, Nicholas, why don't you stay behind? As for me, I would prefer to spend the remainder of my night in a more congenial environment."

I looked at my wristwatch. It was past 4 p.m. Dawn was not really so far away. "Suits me. Would you like a ride back into town, Mr. LaCroix?"

He turned to me, those blue eyes burning into me. "Thank you, Mr. Marlowe, but I shall arrange my own transportation. If it is convenient for you to be in your office at sunset, we will call on you then."

I didn't think he much cared about my convenience, but it was nice of him to phrase it so politely. I returned the politeness by wishing them a good night, and drove the long way back home, alone.

It didn't occured to me later, when I'd drunk a nightcap of bourbon to try to chase away the chill, that I hadn't the slightest idea of how Knight was going to get home without me.


	3. Chapter 3

I was awoken by the shrill ringing of the telephone. This was getting to be too much of a habit. The consequence of spending my time with vampires, I supposed, and not something that was likely to continue when this case was over. I wondered if this case was ever going to be over. By the light coming in my window, I guessed it was nearly noon, a guess that was confirmed by my clock.

I answered the phone. "Madden, what a surprise."

But his words did surprise me. "Marlowe, there's been another murder." He named an address, this one on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks.

I told him I'd meet him in about an hour. First I needed a shower, to wake up, and more than one cup of coffee.

After I hung up the phone, I lit a cigarette, and went to put the coffee on. So much to wonder. Who was Lucien LaCroix, and what was his relationship to Janette and to Knight? They, at least, appeared to be former lovers, a relationship I could understand. But LaCroix was by far the oddest and the most intriguing of the lot. At least, Janette filled the role of femme fatale rather well, and Knight was a strange combination of good guy cop and bad guy vampire.

But Lucien LaCroix was a mystery above and beyond the incredible revelations of the night before. He had referred to them as his children, but none of them looked anything alike, and I couldn't imagine he meant they were his children in any sense that I would understand. I wondered if that meant that he was the one who had turned them into vampires, like Dracula did to his brides. And the way he had simply turned up, knowing they were in trouble -- it was all quite a puzzle.

But in any case, the new victim added a new wrinkle to the case. I knew it couldn't have been Knight or Janette, since they'd been with me since right after sundown. LaCroix might have killed her for . . . sustenance . . . before his rendezvous with the others, although Janette's words about "the community" and about discretion made this seem unlikely. So the killer was still at large, whether it was this DiLorenzo or someone else. Janette hadn't mentioned any other mortals she was friendly with, but perhaps she hadn't thought of someone who DiLorenzo's jealous eye might have seen as more important than she did.

*****

This new victim lived in a rundown section of town, and the way she made a living was strictly illegal -- unless you knew who to bribe. To make a long story short, she was a common prostitute, and not anybody I could imagine Janette DuCharme having any real connection with. There were no helpful neighbors, as with Alexis Parker, only a surly landlady who had liquor on her breath even this early in the day, and who wore a crumpled-looking housecoat.

"Told me her name was Judy Lewis, but I doubt she was usin' her real name," she admitted, apparently with great difficulty. I saw that Madden handed her a folded piece of paper, which I recognized as a twenty, and she became a bit more fluent. "Paid her rent on time and never bothered nobody. Real quiet, and usually the men she brought back her were quiet too. Once or twice we had a little trouble, and after that she stayed out more, stopped bringing them back here."

The corpse was as pale as the others, with those tell-tale wounds at the throat.

I turned to Madden. "Any connection with the studio?"

"No," he said. "The inspector called me because it matched the pattern of the murders you and I have been investigating, and he thought we might be able to help out. But the studio isn't going to be very interested in the murder of a working girl."

"And you?"

"The girl's dead, Marlowe. I don't much care who she was, but I do have to justify my time and expenses to the high muckety-mucks at the studio."

"Yeah," I said bitterly, semi-quoting from a book I'd once read. "Some victims are more equal than others."

Madden looked at me, compassionately. "You think this is a link to our killer? Cause if you're pretty sure about that, it's good enough for me. But the studio's gonna want results soon."

I nodded. There was so much I couldn't tell him. This girl could have been the victim of another vampire, whether Lucien LaCroix or one I hadn't met. I didn't like thinking about the fact that there might be a whole lot of vampires out there who I hadn't met. Count Dracula had had his minions, of course, but they were few enough that they could all be safely staked by the end of the final reel.

"Yeah," I said finally. "I do."

*****

I spend the rest of the afternoon tracking down the details of Judy Lewis' sorry, sordid life. Women like that try to protect themselves by denying their pasts, denying that there was a time when they could have been something other than what they had become. I knew there might be a family, and that she would have been too ashamed to let them know where she was or what she'd become while she was living. Did I have any right to do that to her now that she was dead?

Around dusk I was sitting in my office, drinking a rye-and-water and contemplating the idea of food without much enthusiasm. I'd just about decided to make do with the lunch counter at a drugstore around the corner, when I heard a soft movement, and Lucien LaCroix was in the room.

"Where did you come from?" I asked. The doors had remained shut the entire time.

"You shouldn't leave your windows open," he said, with a smile that contained more than a little bit of underlying menace. "All those legends about our needing to be invited to cross a threshold -- not true, I'm afraid."

It was a third floor office, and I couldn't quite imagine the dignified LaCroix climbing up a drainpipe to my window, but neither could I figure out how else he'd done it. His black suit was impeccable, which counted against that, as well.

"I hear there was another victim," he said.

"How did you know that? I only found out this morning. Unless, of course, you had something to do with it."

He smiled, again, and I felt a chill running through me. "The community is aware of what's going on. Our presence cannot be betrayed in this manner. We are able to exist among you only because your kind does not believe in us. We are more powerful than you, but your numbers are greater.

"There is a move in the community to call in the Enforcers to handle the little problem of Francisco DiLorenzo. But the Enforcers would take care of any mortals who happened onto the situation as well. That means you, Mister Marlowe. And Nicholas and Janette have taken rather a fancy to you. They do not wish to see you harmed."

I looked into his cold blue eyes. "You, on the other hand, would toss me to these Enforcers as readily as I might swat a fly."

"So glad we understand each other, Mister Marlowe. I have often deprived my children of their mortal playthings. But . . . to make both of them unhappy without any particular reason, when it can be avoided . . . well, I should rather not do that." He paused. "If you cooperate, that is."

"What about the girl?" I asked. "What about Judy Lewis?"

LaCroix shrugged. "DiLorenzo is trying to force our hand -- or the community's. A girl like that could so easily have simply disappeared. He left the body because he wanted to be noticed."

"What do we do next?"

"We, Mister Marlowe? Have I not just made it clear that your continued existence depends on your cooperation? Nicholas, Janette and I will handle this. Janette is pretending that she wants to reconcile with DiLorenzo . . . that his killing spree has impressed upon her just how much he adores her. She will lure him to Venice tonight, under the pretext that she wants to hand over her final mortal connection to him as proof of her love."

"And Paul Kaminsky?"

"Will die, or not. I suppose it all depends on timing, really." He looked thoughtful. "I do hate having to destroy one of my own kind. But DiLorenzo seems unlikely to leave Janette alone, otherwise."

"I'm coming with you."

"Haven't I made it clear that we are handling this?"

"But the authorities are interested in these murders. And they'll listen to me. Wouldn't your . . . community . . . rather have that little problem take care of itself?"

"You have a point," said LaCroix. "The community prefers to avoid such things when possible. Very well. DiLorenzo is expected in Venice at midnight."

And before I could offer him a ride, he was gone.

*****

I checked the back seat of my car to reassure myself that the crucifix and holy water were still in place. Even I had some difficulty believing the situation I was preparing to walk into was actually true, despite everything I'd seen to the contrary. I would have no trouble lying to Madden or his employers. It wasn't like they would believe the truth, even if I told them.

I arrived at Venice half an hour before midnight. At first, even with my flashlight, I could make out nothing on the beach. The moon was barely present as a narrow sliver, and half the time it was hidden behind clouds anyway. I could hear the lapping of the waves, and that gave me a sense of direction.

After a few minutes, they found me. Knight, Janette and LaCroix surrounded me.

"You shouldn't have come," said Knight, with soft reproach in his voice.

"I needed to know," I said.

"I suppose I would have done the same," he replied. I shut off my flashlight, trusting to my companions' ability to see in the dark. And we settled there for a long wait. LaCroix and Janette passed a bottle back and forth. Knight refused, despite LaCroix's admonitions that he was weakening himself unnecessarily. The bottle was not proffered to me, and for that, I was grateful.

It felt like hours that we waited there, silently, although when the moon briefly lit the sky and I checked my watch, it was only quarter after midnight. Then suddenly, with that same odd whoosh of motion, there was another in our midst.

It was DiLorenzo. His bared fangs and reddened eyes told me that. "You're not alone, are you, Janette? Do you think you need protection from me?"

"You have given me reason to distrust you," she said, softly.

"And you have betrayed me," he snarled. He saw LaCroix move, and sprang at him. There was a struggle that I couldn't quite make out in the dark, just two dark-clad bodies and the flash of teeth and eyes, and a sound of snarling, like animals. I pulled out my flashlight, hoping to see better, and perhaps to shine it in DiLorenzo's eyes and temporarily blind him.

LaCroix was lying on the ground, bleeding from his throat. I wondered if what he was bleeding was what I had seen him drinking earlier. Despite his obvious strength, DiLorenzo's madness and recklessness had given him the edge. Janette rushed to LaCroix's side, while DiLorenzo turned to face Nick Knight. "You," he spat. "You're the reason she doesn't love me. The _real_ reason." And he rushed at Knight. In the flashlight beam, I could see that all his clothes, even his shirt, were black.

For a moment they grappled together, more like a pair of wildcats fighting than two men. And then Knight was sent sprawling, bleeding from several places. DiLorenzo looked at Janette and at me, quickly discounted me as no threat, and advanced on his beloved.

"I'll make you love me," he growled. "I'll _make_ you." She hissed in response.

Her fangs were just as frightening as the men's, her eyes just as red, but she was much less DiLorenzo's size. I saw that Knight was up again, and that he was heading towards the studio. Then it struck me: Kaminsky would stretch his canvas on pieces of wood . . . which could be sharpened into stakes. I had a quick flashback to _Dracula_ , where the Count is staked through the heart by the hero. Knight was going to do the same, if Janette and I could keep DiLorenzo busy while he readied the stake. I rushed forward with my crucifix, hoping it would have the same effect on DiLorenzo that it had had on Knight.

He saw it and shrank back, as did Janette. But while she flinched and stood her ground, he actually moved as if to flee. He could not, though. LaCroix was up again and holding him from behind. He was using DiLorenzo's body as a shield, so that he himself could not see the crucifix. I advanced on DiLorenzo, and pulled the holy water bottle out of my pocket. I couldn't warn LaCroix without warning DiLorenzo, so I hoped for the best as I uncorked the bottle and threw it in his face.

I've never seen a vitriol-throwing, but I've read about them. DiLorenzo's face began to smoke, to burn, as he writhed in agony. And then Knight was there, armed with a wooden stake which he thrust through DiLorenzo's heart. He twitched for a moment, and was still. As he died, he screamed in heart-wrenching agony.

Lights switched on inside the house. "Is anybody there? What's the matter?" It was Kaminsky, in his pajamas, awakened by the sound.

"Everything's under control. It's the police," I lied. I went to meet him, flashing my P.I. badge briefly in the dark. I gave him a quick excuse about disturbances in the neighborhood but how there was nothing to worry about now. He gladly bought it. He wouldn't want to have to sleep with his windows closed and locked in this weather, not and miss that ocean breeze.

When I returned to the yard, they were gone, even the body. There wasn't a scrap of evidence that they had ever been there, except the crucifix I'd just dropped and the holy water vial. My flashlight showed what seemed to be some grey ashes on the lawn.

My car was parked where I'd left it, so I drove home. There really wasn't anything else to do, until the morning when I'd phone Bill Madden. I drove back into town, back to my place, had a couple bourbons, and collapsed into bed, prepared for a restless night, and strange dreams.

But, in fact, I slept soundly and dreamlessly until a couple of hours before dawn, when I awoke to find LaCroix and Janette standing at the foot of my bed. I sat up quickly, too stunned to speak, and remembered I'd left the crucifix in my car.

"And what shall we do about Marlowe?" asked Janette.

LaCroix stepped forward and fixed those pale blue eyes directly on mine. "You will forget everything you have seen. You never met me. There are no such things as vampires. Janette is just a suspect, who proved innocent. Nicholas is just a policeman from Chicago. The murderer was insane and he was accidentally killed while you and Nicholas were apprehending him. The body washed out to sea."

I nodded, entranced by his gaze and words.

“I was afraid you were going to kill him," said Janette. "He is only a mortal, but . . ."

"There is something about him. You noticed it, too. . . . I have not respected a mortal in many centuries. I respect Marlowe. That is why I will not kill him. I would bring him across, only I suspect he would present us with the same sorts of problems that Nicholas does."

Knight rushed into the room. "LaCroix, don't!"

"You are too late, Nicholas. I have already erased his memory." Knight looked relieved. "He is still in an entranced state. You must tell him a story . . . one that he can tell to his clients and to the police."

I remember no more, except waking up in my own bed, in bright sunlight, with a throbbing head and two different versions of what had happened running simultaneously through my mind. I phoned my client and told him the one I knew he would believe. The one that didn't really happen.

You see, LaCroix hypnotized me so that I wouldn't remember about him, or vampires, or any of those secrets we mere mortals are not supposed to know. But there are some people who can't be hypnotized. And I'm one of them.

Knight came to see me that evening, just after sunset, and went away happy. For all he could tell, I thought he was just a nice-guy policeman from Chicago, nothing more or less. I knew LaCroix didn't want to kill me, so I wasn't going to go out of my way to make him.

I guess they went back to Chicago, because I never saw any of them again. Knight and Janette, well, whatever there was between them, I hope they worked it out, because they were quite a pair and I would have felt sorry for anybody else who fell for either of them. And not just because they were vampires. As for LaCroix, I think there would have been a lot of work for him in Hollywood, if he'd have stayed. He'd have had a real future playing decadent crime bosses and mad scientists. His most benign looks were more menacing than the best frightening that Edward G. Robinson and Boris Karloff could manage between them. But I guess shooting during the days would have been a problem.

The studio, and the police, were happy to accept my explanation. The studio paid me enough that I wouldn't have had to work for a year. But somehow I couldn't do that, so I paid my landlord the next six months in advance and stuck the rest in a bank account to tide me over whenever my sentiment defeated my business sense.

But first I went down to Mexico, to sit in the sun for a few days. I've never hidden the fact that I like to drink. But I never get really drunk, never cross that line into oblivion. Only I got real drunk, that kind of drunk, for a couple of days down there in Mexico, drinking tequila in the sunshine. Real real drunk. And by the time the cumulative hangover began to fade, I had begun to convince myself it was probably just a dream, anyway.

They call death the big sleep. And it's not such a bad thing, really. Just not if it comes too soon, or at the hands of someone you trusted, or loved. What Knight and Janette and LaCroix were facing was a lot worse. Like being an insomniac, only forever. And there's never any sunlight, never a reprieve from the darkness. Just one long forever night.

*****

Epilogue

Lucien LaCroix turned the final page of the manuscript. How wise Marlowe had been not to try to publish it. He had barely remembered the incident, until the reading had recalled it to him, and he no longer knew the man's real name. But suddenly an image came to mind, of a strongly built dark-haired man with a no-nonsense demeanor and a haunted look in his eyes. He could see "Marlowe" before him as though the years had not passed.

It briefly occurred to him that he might show it to Janette or to Nicholas. It might amuse them. On the other hand, why remind them of a mortal who had impressed them, who even LaCroix himself had not been able to dismiss entirely? No, the manuscript was better off as it had been . . . lost.

There was a book of matches in the desk, and he briefly contemplated burning the pages. But something stopped him, caused him to replace it in Aristotle's envelope and fold the whole thing into an inside coat pocket.

The story pleased him rather, and he thought he might like to reread it someday.


End file.
